You don’t think in a conscious way that it could never happen, because even that would mean to allow that it could, when it is, in fact, the unthinkable. But the world will always think otherwise, or would if it could. And so your heart is torn to pieces. Not into neat, square pieces like paper creased and ripped along the sharp edge of the kitchen table of your one and present life. Like the pound of flesh that it is, ragged, an urgent beating thing. If you could, you would press it, warm and sticky, against the white walls of power, making red-stained valentines.